


Confronting the Invisible Monster

by CelticArche



Series: An Mutual Arrangement, Unwillingly Made, Willingly Kept [1]
Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bribery, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Rehabilitation, criminal activity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-06 02:11:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6733786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelticArche/pseuds/CelticArche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blore confronts Armstrong on his drinking habits, and gives the doctor an ultimatum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confronting the Invisible Monster

**Author's Note:**

> I have this idea of a modern setting with Blore and Armstrong in a relationship, outside of something like Soldier Island. I also want this fandom to have more Armblore. So these will be posted out of sequence and as stand alone fics, snapshots of their relationship.
> 
> Beta'd by cephalopod_groupie.

Armstrong lets himself into Blore’s flat with the key that hides between the ones to his own flat and the ones for the clinic. Blore is sitting on the sofa, long legs stretched out and on his coffee table. His feet are bare, and Armstrong makes a face at the idea of Blore’s feet, having spent all day in shoes, now bare and touching the surface where the take away containers sit. Blore is wearing worn out jeans and a worn Arsenal FC shirt.

Blore glances up as Armstrong closes and locks the front door behind him. The doctor pauses to see what Blore is watching on the television. Blore rests his cheek on his knuckles as Armstrong stands beside him, head tilted to one side. Armstrong watches the scene unfold, something to do with some bridge, he thinks. Unable to make heads or tails of it, he heads to the kitchen for a drink.

He opens the door of the fridge, and looks inside. It’s easy to tell Blore is a bachelor, given the fact that the amount of condiments always seem to outnumber any other sort of edible. Armstrong moves items around, looking for a drink.

“There’s no beer in there, if that’s what you’re after.”

Armstrong hits his head on the inside of the refrigerator. He takes a step back, his right hand on the door and his left rubbing his head.

“It’s unusual for you not to have any.”

Blore is leaning against the doorway, legs crossed and arms folded. “You ain’t gonna be getting sloshed and shaggin’ me.”

Armstrong looks affronted. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“The other day, you was shaking. I saw it. Like your coffee was having a storm or somethin’.”

Armstrong slams the door of the refrigerator shut. “I was not shaking!”

“You get the shakes. You killed a patient while on the drink.”

“How dare you!” Armstrong’s voice goes up, with a note of hysteria.

Blore crosses the space between them, his jaw set stubbornly. “You killed her! You were so addled, you wrote a prescription for her that was too high and she died! It was an accident, but it was your alcohol problem that was responsible!”

“Like you’re so pure and pristine,  _ Detective Sergeant _ . You took a bribe from me to keep quiet about it!”

“And you decided to bugger me to make sure I never went clean! So if you want to keep doing it, you’re gonna hafta clean up the alcohol problem!”

“You let me fuck you because no one else had the temerity to even  _ look _ at you!” Armstrong’s blue eyes are flashing.

Blore’s nostrils flare, pain and anger mixing in his eyes. His lids flutter, lashes brushing over high cheekbones. Suddenly pain blossoms in Armstrong’s nose and blood starts dripping onto his white shirt. Armstrong brings one hand up to his nose, checking to see if it’s broken. Blore’s fist is red with blood, and white from how hard he’s keeping his fist clenched.

Blore glares at him, all the sharp lines of his face in highlight. His mouth is a thin slash on his face. “Now, you listen here, you bloody git! Jus’ because I ain’t never been with a man before, don’t mean you get to say shit like that. You ain’t the first alcoholic I seen, you ain’t gonna be the last. You either get help, or you get out.”

The silence stretches between them; as Armstrong holds his bloody nose and Blore seeths. Armstrong makes no move to leave, blood dripping onto his white shirt, staring at Blore. Blore stares back through narrowed eyes, angry and still hurt by the barb thrown at him. Armstrong makes no move to actually walk out the door and out of Blore’s life.

Blore finally walks away, only to return with a wash rag from his bathroom. He wets it down, wrings it out, then presses it to Armstrong’s nose. Armstrong takes it, cleaning himself up. Blore carefully starts to unbutton Armstrong’s shirt, to wash the blood out of the white fabric.

“I know a bloke whose sister works one of the outpatient rehabs.” Blore looks at Armstrong’s chest as his hands undo button by button.

“My colleagues…”

“Don’t know shit about it. I made sure. It’s all quite hush hush. But you can get yerself sober.” Blore touches the chest covered in hair, feeling the coarseness against his fingers. He can feel it when Armstrong’s heart beats faster.

One of Armstrong’s hands cover Blore’s wrist, pressing Blore’s hand to his chest. Blore’s heart speeds up as he looks at Armstrong’s face. Armstrong’s eyes are locked on Blore’s face. Armstrong tosses the wash rag toward Blore’s kitchen sink, then pulls Blore close and into a kiss. Blore’s fingers brush over and over the coarse hair. Armstrong slides his free arm around Blore’s waist, fingers curling into the belt loops.

Their lips parted, neither moving. Armstrong is warm, and Blore wants to curl up against him and hold that warmth close. He sees so much coldness at work, it wears on him. Armstrong fucks him, it’s not a relationship in any sense of the word. But it’s the only one with another man that Blore has ever had. He was certain Armstrong would leave when he made the decision to not buy any beer.

They stand in the kitchen, pressed against each other. Holding and being held. They had weathered a storm together, each surprised to have done so. Each is dysfunctional alone, and each is sure their relationship, whatever it might be, is twice as worse. Yet, Blore has confronted Armstrong’s alcoholism and come out the winner.


End file.
